The World Turned
by enigma731
Summary: The fate of Diagnostics is left in Chase's hands. On permanent hiatus.
1. This Game Again

NOTES: If you haven't read The Shortest Distance, Circling, and Terminal Velocity first, you will be very lost. Please consider looking at them before you read this?

Chapter One: This Game Again

Sometime over the past six weeks, his life has become defined by telephone calls. It's early evening and Chase has fallen asleep on the couch, lulled by the suspense-laden drawl of the evening news. Invariably he has strange dreams when this happens, and yet it's become a habit over the past three years. In truth, he thinks he's a little bit addicted to the images of shadow-darkened features, flaming cars and women with wings. He thinks, without fail, that this can't be healthy, but he isn't sure he could stop if he tried.

The phone is on at least the sixth ring by the time he's fully aware of what's actually happening. Chase sits up and lunges for the receiver on his coffee table, assuming it's Cameron but still surprised that anyone would be calling at all. It's been a long time since he's allowed anyone to be that aware of his existence.

"Dr. Chase, I hope I haven't interrupted your dinner."

It takes him a long moment to place Cuddy's voice, and then another second of realizing that he actually _is_ hungry before it sinks in why she's calling. It is Monday, but he's somehow impossibly forgotten, the minutes vanishing impossibly fast into an empty page and bad daytime television, and the ever-increasing period since he last saw Cameron. She's working, he knows, but that doesn't negate the heavy feeling of uncertainty that's settled like a boulder on his chest. It seems, in retrospect, suddenly inconceivable that he's gone nearly five years completely alone.

"No," says Chase, wondering what she must think of his inability to follow the conversation, and whether he should have said yes in justification. "No, you didn't."

"Good," says Cuddy awkwardly. "That's good."

There's another pause during which Chase's heart seems to have fallen into rhythm with the sudden impossibly loud ticking of the clock on the wall over his head. She's calling about the job, and now the realization has sunk in fully. He's thought until now that he'd lost the ability to want anything this badly.

"I assume you know why I'm calling," Cuddy continues, and for a second he's certain she's going to reject him, otherwise why would it be taking so long?

"Yeah," says Chase, willing her to do it quickly. He wonders whether Cameron knows something and whether that's why she hasn't called.

"I have thought long and hard about this, and I've decided that I would like for you to take over Doctor House's position as head of Diagnostics." And just like that the ice is broken, and everything is warm like there's a blanket of sunshine over the couch, and he almost wants to laugh at the odd formality of it all. There's a story on the news about a late spring cold front coming, and suddenly everything feels very clear.

"Thank you." It's trite and inappropriate but it's been a long time since he's had a real reason to say it. Weight lifted, he takes a deep breath, the lingering tinge of paint fumes tingling his nose like ghosts.

"I'd like to see you in my office tomorrow at nine a.m.," says Cuddy. There's something in her voice, and doubts rise like moths to a flame.

* * *

The girl has green hair. There's a bright purple streak running unevenly back from her temples, and her earrings look like screws stuck through her lobes. Cameron glances at her chart and suppresses a sigh. It's patients like this who force her to remind herself that she cannot define people by stereotypes, no matter how perfectly they seem to fit. This girl deserves just as much compassion as anyone else. The job has made Cameron a terrible person, but if she does enough good then maybe no one will notice.

"Mollie," says Cameron, glancing back at the chart. It's already been a long day after a work-filled weekend and she has to force herself to be patient. "Do you know why Dr. Jones asked me to talk to you?"

The girl shrugs apathetically. "I don't really give a shit. Get him back here, he was hot."

"Mollie, you're pregnant." Cameron sits on the exam room stool, putting herself at eye-level with the girl. This situation is all about diffusing the tension if her counseling is going to have any effect at all. "Dr. Jones asked me to talk to you about your options. I know you're probably scared."

Mollie stares at her shoes, which are graffitied with a large variety of semi-legible obscenities. A bevy of emotions flits across her face, only partially hidden behind grass colored bangs, but she doesn't say anything. Cameron glances at the file again, her mind in too many places at once. She's started to think, lately, that being a "good doctor" inevitably makes one less competent and spread too thin. Odd, then, to rue the passing of a less successful time in her life.

"Because of your age and your continuing drug use, you're going to have to make some difficult decisions."

Mollie shifts uncomfortably and swipes at her eyes. So there is a human being in there after all, thinks Cameron. These, then, are the moments she lives for now. Not the saving of a life, or the solving of a case, or the finding of a cure for a rare disease. But the moments in which there's something there, something palpable, something real and lovable in people she's never anticipated herself able to stomach before. Cameron swallows a tinge of bitterness as her thoughts stray to what House would have had to say about the current state of her life. Sour grapes, she thinks, but she honestly isn't sure.

"Mollie, you're fifteen," says Cameron. "It says in the file you've been using drugs for at least two years. You're also being screened for sexually transmitted diseases, the results of which aren't back yet. All of these things make your pregnancy extremely high risk, not to mention the changes a baby will require you to make in your lifestyle."

"And if I don't want to change anything?" Mollie leans forward, obviously posturing tough.

"You're going to have to make some sacrifices," says Cameron. "You made decisions that got you where you are, and those decisions aren't without consequences."

Mollie opens her mouth, obviously about to say something combative, when they're both startled by a sharp rap on the door. The bare minimum of a respectful moment later, Cuddy sticks her head in.

"I need you, Dr. Cameron." It's always a shock to see Cuddy lately, the most salient reminder of the years passed and things changed in the hospital. Her hair is graying, once well-tailored suits now hanging on a frame which is suddenly and oddly angular. Cameron can't remember the last time she saw the combative sparkle reserved previously for House.

"I'm with a patient," says Cameron, wondering what could possibly be so important that Cuddy would interrupt.

"Five minutes," says Cuddy.

Obediently, Cameron follows her into the hall, wondering whether this is how Wilson felt once. Interrupted every day to intervene in the lives of others regardless of whether she actually wants to be the one _asking_ the favor. It seems a cruel joke to have her advice in demand _now_, after she's already missed every opportunity she's wanted to take to help.

"Is there another patient?" asks Cameron. It's spring, and somehow that always means trouble at the clinic and overwork for her. Pheromones, or something.

"No," says Cuddy. She has that look on her face, that tight-browed, warm-eyed look that's designed to make patients and especially potential donors think she exudes empathy in excess. This is going to be delicate, a question that turns sense into brittle porcelain, Cameron is sure.

"What is it?" asks Cameron. It's Cuddy's own version of the intangible consent form, making people repeat or ask or otherwise lead her into the bad news.

"I wanted to know your professional opinion of Chase." And now it's delivered straight, like Cuddy's asking whether the mail has arrived or if it might rain today.

Cameron falters, lost among her allegiances and unsure of what best to say. She settles for, "I'm not really sure that's appropriate. He's not my colleague anymore."

"But he is your friend," says Cuddy, and Cameron gets the feeling that she's refrained from adding _at least_ to the end of that sentence.

"I've been in contact with him, yes," says Cameron noncommittally. It's a slippery slope she's walking now and she still can't decide where the least damage lies.

"Then in your opinion, is he fit to work again?" asks Cuddy sharply. Cameron has to force herself to meet Cuddy's gaze, something repulsive and sticking in the air between them like trying to make two like magnets meet. Cuddy smiles, attempting to diffuse the situation. "It's not like he has references I can call."

Cameron narrows her eyes. "Are we talking about House's job?"

Cuddy's face tightens oddly at the mention of his name. She nods curtly.

Cameron crosses her arms over her chest, feeling suddenly and oddly exposed. "In my professional opinion, I'm not sure anyone's fit for that."

Cuddy looks surprised. "So you're saying you didn't encourage Chase to interview for it?"

Cameron sighs. The entire situation makes her nervous; there's no right answer here unless Cuddy takes the job out of the equation of her own accord. It's like a suicide mission, and yet rejection has the potential to be equally damaging.

"He made the decision on his own," Cameron admits. "I encouraged him to stand behind it. He needs to believe that his judgment can still be good."

Cuddy nods slowly. "I just hired him."

It's a betrayal, like a punch to the stomach, and for a moment Cameron just gapes. She's started to pride herself on newly developed unflappability, but this takes the cake over any patient she's had in the past month. It's a level of manipulation previously reserved only for House.

"So what were you going to do?" asks Cameron. "Call him back and fire him if my opinion wasn't good enough for you?"

"No," says Cuddy calmly. "Of the applicants I have interviewed, I feel that Dr. Chase is the most qualified professionally." And this is the operative word, though she doesn't say as much. The look in her eyes as she says it makes it perfectly clear.

"Then why did you need to ask?" Cameron takes a step forward, making the space between them uncomfortably small.

"Like you said, it's a tough job. I wanted to know whether I should be keeping any resumes on file." Cuddy smiles again, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "I'm sure you'll look out for him."

* * *

Cameron shows up unannounced around eight with rented DVDs and a whole baked chicken. Chase smiles and watches her stand outside his door for a moment, trying to balance the awkwardly shaped takeout container. She's wearing black slacks and a powder blue jacket, and he thinks somehow that she grows impossibly more beautiful every time she keeps coming back.

"Food?" she offers, stepping forward into a clumsy one-armed hug, the chicken not quite between them. She looks up into his face and for one precarious, breathless moment he thinks she is going to kiss him again. But then the second passes and she pulls back, stepping past him into the apartment. And it's this game again, of waiting and convergence, of a little way forward and a long way back.

"Long weekend?" Chase prompts, hoping she'll give him some reason she hasn't called since Friday.

Cameron sits on the couch and slits the tape holding the container closed with a fingernail. "I heard you got a phone call from Cuddy," she says, trying to pull chicken skin from meat without getting oil all over her fingers. Deflection, then, thinks Chase. He knows better than to push her too far too fast.

And just like that the nervous flutter is back, like someone's released a bunch of little helium-filled balloons in his stomach. Chase puts the chicken back on his plate, appetite momentarily forgotten. "Word travels fast."

Cameron shrugs. "I'm sort of in a position to hear things."

"You put yourself in a position to hear things," Chase counters. This will never change about her, he knows.

Cameron makes a noncommittal noise and moves on to pulling meat from bone with a fork. "Congratulations?" she offers.

"I'm not sure," Chase admits. He wonders for what seems like the millionth time why _this job_ is suddenly so important. It's been years now since he's considered himself functional, and how can he assume that he's healed enough now? And yet it's _House_ who's ruined him, and it feels oddly appropriate that it ought to end here, where things began.

"Why not?"

"I'm not sure Cuddy trusts me." He thinks about her voice just before she hung up the phone.

Cameron narrows her eyes. "Do _you_ trust you?"

And she's hit the nail on the head and there's nothing more to say.

* * *

Let me know what you think? 


	2. Ritual and Sacrifice

Ack, sorry guys! Somehow the same chapter got uploaded twice? My school's network is weird.

NOTES: Please see the timeline so far. Otherwise you may find yourself very lost. This team is in no way affiliated with the Season Four newbies; they are original characters, and I hope that you will give me the chance to develop them before you pass judgment on that.

BACKGROUND: Since I know some people are confused on this AU canon, the year is 2013 and House has been dead for five weeks. Cameron now works in the clinic/ER as a crisis counselor. Wilson has been missing for four years. Chase returns to PPTH in this novella after three years of reclusion following a nervous breakdown and car accident. A longer and more detailed version of this info will be posted in the comm soon, but I don't have time this weekend and I didn't want people getting lost.

* * *

Chapter Two: Ritual and Sacrifice

There's a sense of ominous calm as Chase drives to the hospital. He can count the number of times he's been in his car over the past three years, all of them seeming momentous and just a little reckless. He's never been faulted for the accident, and yet sometimes he thinks maybe it would have been better to be punished, to lose his license or at least have to pay a fine. The rational part of his mind thinks he ought to be afraid to drive, and yet all he feels behind the wheel is guilt.

Cameron is waiting in the atrium, a takeout cup from the cafeteria in her hand. Chase takes it from her, glad she's here but unable to ask for the reassurance he suddenly so desperately craves. It's like déjà vu, but entirely different, the shell of isolation that seems to emanate from everything in the hospital, forcing them to grasp in the dark for contact.

"What's this?" he asks, trying inconspicuously to get his bearings. It's overwhelming now, stepping into the hospital. He feels strangely lost, though it all ought to be familiar, and he's reminded of his first time in an American airport.

"Tea," says Cameron. She looks like there might be something else, but she doesn't elaborate. Chase scans her face, wishing as ever that he could read her, but he can't see past discomfort.

She glances at her watch, though there's a clock on the wall right behind his head. "It's almost nine. I'll walk with you to Cuddy's office? My shift starts in half an hour."

Chase doesn't ask her why she's come early; this strange and unexplained over protectiveness is becoming part of his new daily reality. They walk in silence to Cuddy's door, coming to a stop outside. There's a baby crying in the clinic, and Chase has to fight the urge to go and see what's wrong. It's been a long time, he thinks. There's a part of him that isn't sure his instincts are ready to kick back in. When he looks at Cameron again her eyes are fathomless, filled with the darkness that means there's something she can't say.

"Whatever happens," she offers finally, "remember that you can't judge yourself on the basis of one experience."

"What are you trying to say? That you expect me to fail at this?" It's as though the air up here is thinner, like he's looking down on her from very far away. He isn't sure he can blame her for that implication.

"No." Her voice is very gentle, the way he remembers it being the few times he's heard her tell patients they're going to die. "Just—I've met the team you're going to be working with. Things haven't been good for a long time."

* * *

Cuddy's on the phone when Chase walks in, and for a moment she doesn't look up. There's a stack of papers on her desk, separated and fanned out by the hand she's not using to hold the receiver. As he watches, she struggles to read something on one of the middle pages, and the entire stack springs loose, spilling onto the floor. Cuddy mouths a curse, and in leaning over to retrieve the papers, catches sight of Chase. She murmurs something about calling back later, and hangs up. He feels a sudden wave of awkwardness, the inadequacy that's kept him out of Cuddy's office as much as possible. The only memories he has of this place are associated with failures, at least until his most recent interview. 

"Thank you for coming," says Cuddy, though again such pleasantries strike Chase as both unnecessary and unprofessional. He nods in response, and Cuddy gets to her feet to shake his hand.

"I'm sorry I don't have much time to get you oriented this morning. There's an unexpected Board meeting that's just been called, and I have to take care of some things before attending." That isn't the whole story, and as usual, Cuddy's face is an open book. She moves quickly to the filing cabinet in one corner of the room, and begins digging through its deepest drawer.

"That's fine," says Chase, even though it isn't. He suddenly can't imagine himself walking into Diagnostics and taking control. It was a hard enough task managing his ICU staff before the accident, before his life came to a screeching halt. Strange to think now that this job will dictate more of a connection than he's had before, when House has forged an entire legacy on the basis of avoidance.

Cuddy surfaces with a bundle of what Chase recognizes as personnel files. He forces his fingers to close around them as she presses them into his hand; even now it feels odd and violating to have this power at his disposal.

"It's been hard for the entire department," says Cuddy, obviously referring to House's death. Chase wonders how much she actually means herself. "He was having a hard time finding good employees. Hired a whole group of them about three weeks before. These four are the ones that stuck around, although it's been hard to decide how to handle the whole thing without a department head. Cameron's worked with them some. Mostly they've just been doing clinic hours."

Chase nods, unsure of what to say. There's more to this story too, and he wonders whether it's connected to the things she isn't saying about the Board meeting. He can't imagine the Cuddy he knew before allowing an entire department to shut down for over a month, but then he can't quite imagine that Cuddy separately from House.

"Do we have a case?" asks Chase, because the silence has stretched too long and he isn't ready to face these people without so much as the distraction of work.

"Yes," says Cuddy sharply, having obviously forgotten. She crosses the space back to her desk too quickly, pulling a folder from beneath the stack of papers and sending them all cascading to the floor again. This time she doesn't say anything, but simply adds the new file to the ones he's already holding.

Chase nods again and forces a smile, walking to the door with what he hopes is an air of confidence. He has his hand on the knob when Cuddy speaks again, the urgency of foot on threshold forcing uncomfortable truth to light as always.

"Chase." She looks tired and sad when he turns back. "One more thing. You know there's only a budget to pay a staff of three. You're going to have to choose one of them to cut."

It's like shining a light into a cave of bats; so many bad memories fly up to haunt him.

* * *

He's avoided coming back to Diagnostics until the last possible moment. The elevator trip, the walk down the long hallway, the unexpected sight of his own older, rougher, pain-hardened reflection glimpsed in the glass, having the weight and gravity of ritual. He remembers, suddenly, the apartment, and the ball and the cane and his vision of an empty conference room. He isn't sure he can bear the sight now, but he's made a commitment for the first time in years and Cuddy's doubts are here like shackles, forcing him on down the hall. 

The first thing he notices is House's name still painted on the glass door, even a month and a half later. Oddly fitting, Chase thinks. This will always be House's domain, and he can only truly hope to preserve it for now. Change will be someone else's legacy, someone unaffected.

The office isn't empty, but the things that fill it now look clumsy and alien. Boxes litter what used to be House's private office, but the desk and shelves are still filled with what trinkets were left here before his death. The main conference room looks like a small tornado might have blown through it, the trash can overflowing with plates from the cafeteria, like the janitors haven't dared come here in a very long time. It looks like someone's tried to loot the bookshelves, contents strewn in leaning piles throughout the room. Chase wonders what they could have been searching for.

The door feels too heavy in his fingers, and Chase has the odd sense of walking through a dream. There's a feeling of disembodiment, as though time should be stopping, or slowing. Like he's watching himself in one of his nightmares. Impossibly, the first thing he sees is the whiteboard, symptoms still scrawled on it in House's ever-more spidery handwriting. Chase freezes, mesmerized by it. Everything has gotten very still since his entrance, like the whole scene is taking place inside a vacuum.

He's forgotten about the team, somehow, though they're his sole reason for being here. Catching sight of them in his peripheral vision is a fresh shock. It's like looking at statues, or a scene frozen on a television screen. Like there's an invisible wall between them and him and maybe they aren't entirely real.

They're seated around the glass table, a book with its pages ripped out strewn across the surface. Chase chokes on an unexpected stab of jealousy; he doesn't want to be back where they're sitting, he tells himself. But he isn't sure he's ever wanted to be where he's currently standing, either. The first thing that strikes him is how vulnerable they look, and he wonders how he and Foreman and Cameron ever looked this young. They remind him of first year medical students, and he thinks with a stab of cynicism that House's death might look like a blessing to them. He can't imagine how they saw his former boss, but from the looks of the room, it can't have been good.

"Hi," says Chase. He isn't sure how he's imagined this moment going, but he does know that this reality is playing out entirely differently.

The girl—the word 'woman' is oddly and entirely inappropriate—flinches, one bony hand darting out to seize a section of pages. She avoids his gaze as she begins working some of the binding glue loose from the edges. She reminds Chase of a mouse: dark, sleek, and fragile, eyes huge behind plastic-rimmed glasses, her body in nervous motion. He notices, suddenly, that some of the pages have rectangular cut-outs in the middle, the perfect size for hiding a pill bottle. Chase wonders whether this was the infamous Lupus textbook, or if House had begun using multiple books for purposes other than reference.

Next to the rest of the team, the girl looks like she might have wandered into a fraternity house and gotten traumatically lost. House has never hired more than one woman on a team; even now, when he's failed to so much as hire the right number, this rule has been followed. The men are seated on the other side of the table, like a panel ready to interrogate the girl. The one in the middle is blond and beautiful, and looks to have all the subtlety of a ton of bricks. As Chase watches, he flicks a clump of glue at the girl, who nearly falls backward out of her chair. The man seated to the left of the blond gives him a disapproving look, but wilts as it's met with a disdainful glare. In the right corner of the table, the third man sits officiously reading a textbook and ignoring the rest of the room, eyes barely visible beneath a mop of curly red hair.

For a moment there are no words, nothing to be done and nothing to say. They stand at an impasse, eyeing one another. Chase grips the files tighter in one hand, remembering suddenly in the cardboard bite of the edge against his palm, that his first charge is to pick one of these four to fire. It seems, at once, an impossible task. And at last, all of the sorrow for all of the past years' tragedies drops into the pit of his stomach like a stone.

"I'm Dr. Chase," he says, finally remembering how to talk and what he's here to say. "You've probably already been told I'll be taking over the department for Dr. House."

* * *

Feedback is always appreciated! 


	3. Apocrypha

Chapter Three: Apocrypha

"Cattrell." The redhead in the corner slams his textbook shut so hard that the table rattles, getting to his feet too quickly for poise. His hands are chubby, turning his fingers into blunt objects that look like he might have jabbed them into a tabletop a few too many times as a spoiled child. He's shorter by at least four inches, but he meets Chase's eyes with a look of pure condescension. "Dr. Zachary Cattrell. The third."

"Pleasure," Chase says diplomatically, surprised to find that the powerful hand he's shaking is cold. Cattrell looks at him like he's expected to make some further acknowledgement, but Chase isn't entirely sure what.

"My father's a cardiologist," Cattrell supplies. "Maybe you've heard of him?"

And it all falls into place. Not the specific name, or the specific father, but enough. Chase remembers awards being framed and hung with a level on the wall, his report cards examined with equal scrutiny. The knowledge that he'll forever be in shadow, his fate determined for him. Tip the bubble and you're doomed. Chase feels the sudden urge to run, the imminence of mutual recognition too much on top of everything else.

"No," he says flatly, careful to keep his voice devoid of any emotion. "I don't." There's a pregnant pause during which Chase can feel Cattrell trying to size him up. The other man looks put out: This obviously isn't a scenario he's used to or has probably even considered. He has the kind of name people always recognize or at the very least pretend to know.

"Ah," he says at last, and goes back to the table. Chase feels a twinge of guilt over what ought to be victory. He hates that even now he can empathize with the flustered pink of Cattrell's cheeks as he returns to his seat. Chase turns to the others, trying to ignore the exchange and move on. There will be plenty of time to get to know his staff, he tells himself, thought it doesn't dispel the sense of sickening dread.

"Justin Kander," says the man with the glasses. He stands and shakes Chase's hand across the table. "They've been promising you to us for a month. We're tired of sitting on our asses, we came here to work."

"Speak for yourself," the blond man interrupts, cracking a huge grin. "James Thompsen." He doesn't get up or offer a hand, his feet propped on a chair under the table.

Chase turns to the girl last, because she's still intent on the binding glue and doesn't seem particularly keen on speaking at all. "And you?"

"That's Hartley," Kander jumps in. He smiles good-naturedly at Chase. "Don't talk to her directly, it freaks her out. Stuttering, shaking, the whole deal. Good thing House didn't actually interview us, she probably would've had a panic attack."

"She just doesn't want you to find out she's actually twelve," says Thompsen meanly. The other two men laugh. Chase doesn't join in and after a moment it's quiet again, like the laughter has depleted something in the room and left a bitter aftertaste.

"What's with the book?" asks Chase, half as a diversion and half out of honest curiosity. He takes a handful of pages from the center of the table and flips through them, confirming that this was once the same Lupus textbook House used as a stash.

Kander looks sheepish, the strange-shaped lamp still left untouched in the corner casting weird reflections on his glasses. He cocks his head toward Hartley. "The Genius thought maybe there was something in it for us to find."

Hartley still doesn't look up, seeming to collapse even further in on herself as Thompsen crosses behind her chair, deliberately letting his foot bump the outside metal leg. He comes to stand behind Chase's right shoulder, uncomfortably close. Thompsen is obviously the kind of man who's grown up using his body for intimidation, and Chase forces himself not to take a step away.

"By _Genius_," Thompsen stage-whispers, his breath just barely brushing the back of Chase's neck, "he means she's _insane_."

"I'm not crazy!" Hartley whips around in her chair without standing up, putting herself at an awkward sideways angle with the metal-barred back in front of her like a kind of bizarre shield. Chase feels an odd tug of protectiveness toward her, the wordless kinship he finds in vulnerability. Now is not the time to show any kind of bias, he reminds himself, and resolves to ask Cameron about this dynamic later.

"You were looking for hidden secrets in a _Lupus textbook_!" Thompsen laughs in a way that ought to be good-humored, but obviously isn't. Cattrell rolls his eyes, obviously disdaining the whole interaction. Kander looks torn between laughing with Thompsen and staying professional.

Hartley glares daggers, slouching so that more of her body is behind the bars on the chair's back. "_It made sense_," she says, her voice low and almost a little bit dangerous. "Besides, he hid Vicodin in there. Who's to say nothing else?"

Kander shakes his head. "He has a point, Hartley."

"We have a case from Cuddy." Chase interrupts, pulling the whiteboard out from its corner, hesitating for a moment before wiping it clean. He feels a stab of sadness looking at the blank surface, the ghost image of House's handwriting still reflected fuzzy green across his field of vision for a second. He turns back to find Thompsen still standing in the same place, Cattrell reading his textbook, and Hartley frozen with the same piece of binding glue between her fingers. Only Kander seems to be paying any attention at all, and he seems overly excited at the prospect of a case.

"Sit," Chase says firmly to Thompsen, who drops heavily into the chair next to Hartley. Chase turns back to the whiteboard and uncaps a marker. He starts to write but only gets halfway into the first word when the ink goes dry. Dead, Chase thinks, and throws it toward the overflowing trashcan. As he watches it bounce off the side, he catches sight of the darkened blood stain on the carpet, still here after all these years. Fixated, Chase catches movement out of the corner of his eye and looks up to see Hartley retrieving the marker and carefully placing it inside a box in the top of the trash can.

"Chronic nausea," says Chase, uncapping a fresh marker and writing the words on the board. "According to the clinic staff, the patient says she vomits every time she eats. Three months ago she went to her OB-GYN complaining of mild nausea. He took her off the birth control patch she had been on, but the symptoms continued to get worse. She went to see her primary care physician and was diagnosed with an eating disorder, which she denies. Twenty-six, active lifestyle until recently, history of mild hypertension which is controlled with medication."

Chase finishes writing the symptoms up and turns back to the team. They shift uncomfortably but say nothing, and suddenly he's reminded of Cameron's warning. Nothing's been good here for a long time. He wonders now just what state House was in before his death, what he might have said to this group to convince them to root through his shelves and tear up his books. Whether he even began to teach them anything at all, or whether it's really been three long months of clinic cases and superfluous paperwork, the way it was in the beginning, before Foreman's arrival.

"Look," he says, "I don't know how House might have done this, but I want to know what you're thinking. This department has a staff for a reason."

"She's pregnant," says Thompsen quickly. "And what exactly is the point of this?"

"Discussion," says Chase, writing _pregnancy_ on the board. "Helps the thought process."

"She's on birth control," Cattrell drawls, staring too intently at the page of his book.

"Not one hundred percent effective," Thompsen insists. "We should test her. Check all her hormone levels too."

"Infection," suggests Kander after a moment. Chase takes a breath, waiting for the next beat. Differentials with House always had a rhythm, and he's suddenly not sure he knows how to get it started. Something's wrong here, out of tune. He wonders whether it's the natural course of such a discussion or this was yet another of House's gifts that everyone took for granted.

"For three months? She'd be dead by now." Cattrell does look up now, carefully inserting a bookmark into the text and closing it with a snap. "And she's _twenty_-six, not six."

"So, you said the nausea's gotten worse lately, right?" Kander looks hopefully at Chase, who glances at the file again and then nods. "The birth control was the problem before. Then she picked up an infection on top of it and the symptoms got worse. The birth control masked the start of the other condition."

"That's a stretch," Cattrell insists. "Acid reflux is more likely. Ulcers could—"

"Gallstones!" Hartley interrupts, making Chase jump. Cattrell rolls his eyes, and Thompsen flicks another clump of glue, the air displaced by the movement making several pages fly across the table.

"We should check for gallstones," she repeats more quietly.

Chase nods and adds it to the board. "Anything else?"

"Infection," says Kander again. "We should find out where she's been lately, if she's been around any young children. Do we know if she's been out of the country recently?"

Chase looks at the file again and shakes his head. "Clinic didn't take a very comprehensive history."

"Unless she's a preschool teacher who's been eating the food her students make pretend on the playground, it's not infection," says Cattrell.

Kander crosses his arms defensively. "Fine, what's your brilliant idea?"

Cattrell shrugs. "Easy. She has an eating disorder. Bulimia."

"She says she doesn't," argues Kander.

"So she doesn't want to get caught."

"Then why would she come into the clinic voluntarily to get checked out?" Kander looks to Chase, seeking support.

"Someone in her family caught her; she's looking for a doctor's pass out." Cattrell looks at the ceiling as though he can't bear to face the rest of the team anymore.

"Don't you think we should give her a bit more credibility than that?" Kander looks outraged.

"All right," Chase breaks in, "I want all of you to go and talk to the patient. Get a better history. Then I want a full blood workup and pregnancy test. Barium swallow and abdominal CT to look for gallstones. If that's all negative, cultures for infection."

For a moment everything grinds to a halt, four blank stares meeting the instructions. Chase thinks about his Arizona team, and the way they functioned like well-programmed robots, so in sync they barely needed his instructions. He's willing to bet they're working still, indifferent to any change in staff.

"Is there a problem?" Chase prompts.

"The Genius doesn't do patients," says Thompsen, laughing again like it's the funniest thing he's heard all morning. "She was raised in a lab or something. Had a monkey for a mother."

"I do patients," says Kander eagerly. "I've been hoping we'd get back to working with them. I can do the interview while they run the tests."

"You going to interview her inside the machine?" asks Cattrell. Kander wilts.

"One thing at a time," says Chase. "She's not critical yet. We're a lot more likely to do harm with a rushed botched test at this point than by doing things deliberately. I want all of you on each step. Don't split up."

As soon as they are gone, he makes his way to one of the chairs and sits heavily in it, at last letting himself be engulfed in the gravity of the room.

* * *

Reviews are love! Next chapter: Chase and Cameron discuss the current state of things at PPTH.  



	4. Ghosts

NOTES: Please see the timeline so far. Otherwise you may find yourself very lost. A long-ish chapter for the first week of hiatus. Also, if you're reading this, please let me know what you think? It's very different from anything I've ever written, and I want to make sure I'm not going off the deep end.

Chapter Four: Ghosts

She feels like House, sneaking into an empty exam room at the end of the day and closing the door. Six years ago this would have made her sick with guilt, appalled at the very idea of trading time with the living for homage to the dead. Now she tells herself through the twinge of what she thinks used to be conscience that she can't do this sitting in her office; it's the end of a busy Tuesday, and she'd inevitably be interrupted there.

Cameron pulls the stool up to the side of the counter and takes the thick file of news clippings from her bag; she's had to bind it up with rubber bands since taking it from House's empty apartment. The cardboard's so old it's lost any ability to bend, falling to dust in her fingers if she presses it too hard. Keeping these things at the office feels oddly appropriate —there's something sordid about them, something that's prevented her from taking them home. She hasn't admitted to Chase that she's stolen the file, and that's maybe worst of all, but she's the one who's been here all along and she needs to do this alone. She tells herself that Chase doesn't need the emotional stress of revisiting these things anyway, though the human part of her still knows that's not true.

Cameron re-reads House's spidery commentary—she already knows it by heart, but there's something organic in seeing it in his hand—searching for a clue. She should have seen his death coming, she thinks, and yet she didn't until it was more than too late. The file's grown since she last saw it on House's desk; it now extends into their past as well as their present. Stumbling onto a copy of her husband's obituary, Cameron snatches her fingers away as though they've been burned. Finding this clipping is oddly appropriate, she thinks. She might as well be twenty-one again, and utterly clueless.

Marriage had been like playing at being adults, romantic and so very unreal. Every day she'd thought naively that he was going to get better. Because he had to. Because he'd changed her, and a little of her identity had been lost, sudden purposelessness in the absence of someone to care for, someone to save.

He'd always hated the tests, but they'd been her salvation. They'd sapped his spirit and taken away his color like arterial leeches. And yet she'd greeted them as though she already had his remission in hand, a reprieve the childish side of her had thought must come. When the monitors had been unplugged and the body she'd been watching over was cold and motionless, she'd known that it had been her mistake. Her husband had grown to hate her before the end, she'd realized, mocked and betrayed by her unrepentant idealism. She'd wondered whether she'd been blind or just looking at the world through a mask. She'd vowed, silently, never to let it happen again.

And yet. Cameron turns the pages in House's file over and over in her hands, stopping at the very end, where she's added pages of her own. A press release about House's funeral, and all the people he'd helped. Nearly twenty years later, and it's this same fall again. She wonders whether it's a mistake she's doomed to make repeatedly and all her life.

* * *

The screeching of a pager brings Chase to his senses with a jolt. He sways on his feet for a moment, shockwaves tingling up and down his legs from lack of circulation and too hard impact with the ground. He has nowhere to go, no direction yet, only the adrenaline of shattered reverie. For a moment he stands simply listening to the shrill beeping and feeling sick with panic before placing the fact that it's his own pager making the noise. His hand shakes as he tries to take it from its belt holster, and the minute it snaps loose it flies out of his fingers, landing on the carpet in the middle of the faded bloodstain. Chase stumbles after it, snatching it into his palm without touching the floor. A single room number flashes in the message window: 221.

It's already been several minutes and he can only imagine what's waiting for him in the patient's room. Chase sprints down the hallway feeling lost, out of his element, the carefully practiced and instinctive crisis response he's developed over the years seeming remote and inaccessible. The hallway feels too long, his feet like rubber; he isn't surprised one bit to find more alarms blaring when he arrives.

He hasn't met the patient before, he realizes, as he wordlessly takes in the flat lines on her EKG. She's small, pale, and blonde, the bones in the wrist exposed by the top of the sheet reminding him of a bird's wing. The team is nowhere to be found, and Chase feels a rush of panic reminiscent of his first days as an intern at the prospect of being left alone with this woman's life in his hands.

"Call a code," he orders, sensing movement behind him. He starts to step toward the woman's bed and nearly pitches forward over the cane that's been suddenly thrust into his path.

"You're an idiot," says House. He meets Chase's surprised gaze with the familiar expression that's something between a smirk and a sneer.

"Get out of my way," snaps Chase, with what he hopes is something resembling authority. It's coming back to him now. He needs to get to this woman, check for a pulse, start trying to resuscitate her.

"Sorry," says House, his voice colored by something that might be genuine regret. He keeps the cane where it is, and somehow Chase can't seem to step past it.

Chase forces himself to sigh; he'll forget to breathe if he doesn't think about it, and lack of oxygen does not promote clear thought. "All right. Why am I an idiot?"

House shakes his head. "You see so much when it comes to other people. How can you be so ridiculously blind when it's your own life that's in question?"

"Right now it's _this patient's_ life," says Chase, annoyed. "Are you gonna let her die while you play games with me?"

"That's up to you," says House. "It's always been up to you."

The beeping of the monitor seems to get louder, and Chase fights the urge to put his hands over his ears. It sounds like a siren, his head pulsing painfully with the noise. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You have a choice," says House. "You just haven't made the right one yet."

"I'm making it now." Chase lunges over the cane and toward the bed, only to find House impossibly in his path again, as though the whole room's shifted back.

"Wrong again." House smiles, and there's something nasty behind the blue of his eyes. Chase realizes that he's forgotten what House's face should look like, and maybe this isn't quite it. "She's dead now. Too bad." The monitors spontaneously go dark.

Chase wakes with a shock that leaves his eyes tearing and his hands like ice. It's getting exhausting, dreaming of waking and waking from dreaming. It's the doorbell that's startled him, he realizes, and it's still Tuesday night, though the sun has long since set. Running a hand through his hair, he moves as fast as he can to answer the door for Cameron, wondering at what point he can appropriately give her a key to his apartment.

"Are you okay?" she asks by way of greeting, and he thinks that he must look even worse than he feels.

"Yeah," he lies, not wanting to talk about it. "I just fell asleep." He doesn't hug her as she steps past him into the apartment, because he thinks if he does he won't be able to let go.

* * *

It's dark outside and raining, the streetlights catching drops on the kitchen windowpanes and turning them to rivulets of silver. It's the kind of night where everything seems saturated with quiet, peaceful but with a charge sizzling through just beneath the surface. Chase pulls an afghan from the back of his couch and wraps it around his shoulders, slumping back so that his head is against the cushions. He's almost painful to look at, Cameron thinks, completely drained. She wonders whether she ought to simply leave and let him go back to sleep, but she's too concerned over the outcome of the day not to stay at least a little while.

"Have you eaten?" she asks gently. She has the sense that she's interrupted something, but it would be a terrible mistake to ask exactly what. She has to resist the urge to ask straight out what happened with the team.

Chase shakes his head, not looking up. He's still dressed for work, dress shirt rumpled, tie hanging loose around his neck.

"Are you hungry?" Cameron tries again. Chase shrugs, but she goes into his kitchen anyway. The refrigerator is nearly empty, and his cupboards are filled with the kind of never-perishable foods that he's probably brought back with him from Arizona.

Cameron sighs, forcing herself not to comment. The idea, after all, is to convince him that he's ready to get his own life back on track. Encouraging dependence isn't going to do that, no matter how strongly her instincts tell her to just take charge. She settles on a bag of popcorn and puts it in the microwave. The silence stretches between them, broken only by the patter of the rain outside and the popping of the kernels. As she takes the finished bag from the microwave, Cameron wonders if he's fallen asleep again.

"I think I'm starting to understand House," says Chase darkly.

Cameron jumps, opening the top of the bag a little too far and hissing in surprise as hot steam brushes the underside of her wrist. She tells herself she's paranoid for thinking that he's somehow found out that she has the file, and why should there be shame in it anyway?

"How so?" she asks, pouring the popcorn into a bowl. It clinks against the sides, grating on her nerves. She feels like a rubber band stretched too far, waiting to snap.

Chase pulls the afghan tighter across his shoulders. He looks soft in the dim light, fragile. She wonders if he's always looked like this and again how blind she's been to miss it all this time.

"If you're an ass to everyone, you don't ever have to worry that they'll want to figure you out." He sounds unquestionably bitter now and Cameron wonders what might have happened already.

"Right," she says, handing him the bowl and sitting beside him. "Because we never tried to figure him out." Chase's fingers brush hers as he takes the popcorn, and she thinks about kissing him. How easy it would be to go back to four days ago and that hallway outside the cafeteria, but it's too soon and she's taken a big enough risk already.

"Did anyone else, though?" counters Chase. He studies the popcorn for a moment, then takes a single butter-drenched piece between two fingers and rolls it delicately. "Besides Wilson, I mean."

It strikes her that she doesn't know, because she's never taken the time to notice. She's been so caught up in her own attempts at figuring House out that she can't honestly say who else he might have had in his life.

"How did it go today?" asks Cameron, simultaneously deflecting and addressing her biggest concern. She takes a handful of popcorn from the bowl and puts a piece in her mouth, sucking the salt off of it.

"Nothing happened," says Chase absently. He tightens his fingers around the piece of popcorn, dusting it back into the bowl. Cameron gives him a look and he smiles a bit sheepishly. "Sorry. I guess I don't know how to share very well anymore."

"So that's good, then?" prompts Cameron, taking another handful. "Nothing bad happened?"

Chase shakes his head. "No, I meant _nothing_ happened. At least, nothing that I saw. They went to do tests and get a history. Came back at the end of the day with nothing done. I have no idea what they _were_ doing that whole time."

Cameron almost laughs in incredulity. "You left them alone with the patient?"

Chase looks annoyed. "Well, yeah. They're supposed to be competent doctors. House never followed us around, even in the beginning."

Now she does laugh, nearly choking on popcorn. "I don't think we were ever this bad."

Chase palms several pieces of popcorn, then throws them one at a time back into the bowl. He looks angry, she thinks, and she feels a little guilty for upsetting him.

"What did House do, hire anyone recently graduated from med school?" he asks.

Cameron sighs, rubbing oil from the popcorn between her fingers. "Pretty much, yes. He couldn't keep a team. Cuddy kept finding him resumes; he kept anyone who wanted to stay and didn't take issue with the lack of work going on."

"So he didn't do anything with them at all?" Chase laughs bitterly. "That explains a lot." He plunges his hand back into the bowl and actually eats a few pieces, grimacing as he swallows. "What's with Hartley? Is she actually crazy?"

For a moment Cameron is taken aback by the realization that she doesn't actually know. She's had enough interaction with these people to have found things out about them, but in reality she barely even remembers their names and specialties.

"House...wasn't in the best condition before he died," she says quietly, thinking about snow and the diner. "I can only imagine how he must have treated them."

Chase turns sharply to look at her, and she's struck by the intensity of his gaze. "You're saying you think House made them like this?"

Cameron shrugs, honestly not sure. "I'm saying that I don't think you should write them off this fast. Give them time. " She doesn't tell him she's made the same mistake already. "Give yourself time."

Chase nods silently, and powders another piece of popcorn between his fingers. For a moment they just sit, listening to the rain. Cameron watches him and shakes her head, struck by his awkwardness in accommodating other people in his life now. It's both endearing and heartbreaking, and she can't help but smile a little.

"What?" he asks suspiciously.

Cameron takes a piece of popcorn from the side of the bowl closest to her and flings it at his head. It bounces off his nose before landing in his lap. Chase raises an eyebrow at her, mirroring her ghost of a smile. This time she does kiss him, promising herself it'll be the last until they've all had more time to heal.

* * *

Reviews make me write faster. Especially during finals. 


	5. Desperate Measures

NOTES: Sorry this update took so long. I was very scared I wasn't going to get unstuck. Here's a very long chapter to make up for the wait. Also, Chapter Three of Numerary Logic is up. I picked a very bad day to update it, and I think a lot of people may have missed it due to some technical issues on the site.

* * *

Chapter Five: Desperate Measures

The pages are terribly, horribly, irrevocably out of order. Worse, some of them are missing. It's been nearly half an hour since Chase began the task of reassembling the old Lupus textbook, using several large document clips to capture the pages. He's moved the desk light from House's old office onto a corner of the glass conference table, not ready to deal with the harsh overhead lights. It's still fully dark out, and Chase wonders if this is what the room looked like when Cameron walked in to find House's body.

He feels a moment of guilt over leaving her asleep on his couch, but there are chills of adrenaline crawling over his skin, and he can't seem to sit still for longer than a few seconds. He thinks of dream-House, and it's crystal clear in the yellow lamp light what he has to do today. The door to one of the adjacent rooms opens and then slams, and Chase jumps, glancing out into the hall, half expecting to see one of his team members arriving already. He starts to breathe again as he catches sight of a doctor whose name he can't remember; the man is walking away down the hall, and that is what matters.

At last giving up, Chase grabs the box of trash bags he's brought from home. He shakes one out a little too violently, enjoying the feeling of it snapping in his fingers. As the sun starts to rise, the current of anxiety seems to coagulate and focus at his core, a kind of flighty energy that's been absent for so long he isn't sure it was ever there to begin with. Chase sweeps the pages off the table and into the bag, then puts it on the floor and crushes it with his foot until the paper is as compact as possible at the bottom. And then it's like a dam has broken in his mind; suddenly he's consumed by the overpowering need to eliminate every trace the years and despair have left on this place.

The bag in the main trash can gets stuck, the marker from the previous day falling out and landing in the middle of the carpet as Chase tries to tug the liner free. When at last it comes, it gives off an enormous puff of fowl-smelling air; obviously this bag has been left here long enough for something in it to spoil. Wrinkling his nose, Chase shoves the marker back inside it and ties off the top, then drags the bag outside the door and leaves it there. At least the janitorial staff won't have the excuse of being too intimidated to come inside and get the trash now.

Chase remembers suddenly coming in early and listening to music in this room, sometimes falling asleep at the table after late-night hours in the ICU, never going home between shifts. He makes a rapid round of the conference room's perimeter, picking books off the floor and lining them up along the shelves. He ends in House's old office, sweeping the debris from the top of the desk into the trash bag with the remains of the textbook. There are several boxes on the floor, which he stacks and takes out into the hall with the two bags. The knickknacks he leaves for the moment, and he's standing lost in fascination over them when Hartley arrives.

"What did you do?" she whispers from the doorframe, and Chase jumps, unnerved by her silent entrance.

"Cleaned up." _My life_, he adds silently.

Hartley peers around the room over the top of her wire-rimmed glasses; the lenses are thick, giving her dark eyes an overwhelming owlish look against the rest of her delicate features. She's carrying an oversized blue backpack, slung loosely over one shoulder and clutched in both arms against her chest, giving her the look of a timid schoolgirl.

"I guess you would want to do that," she says diplomatically, though she's obviously bothered by something.

"You're early," says Chase, glancing at his watch. He has the ridiculous feeling that _she_ is the secret they're looking to find, and his chance to discover her is rapidly escaping with each passing moment.

Hartley nods and considers him again. It's like being put through intense scrutiny by a mouse; her gaze seems simultaneously unnerving and completely benign. "I'm always early. I wake up and think I'm late, so I rush to get here."

"You worry about being late?" asks Chase redundantly. He remembers how House was always late, and wonders where she got her sense of punctuality from.

"I worry about lots of things," Hartley states flatly, and Chase gets the sense that it isn't the kind of thing she tells most people. She opens her mouth like she's about to say something else, but just then all three men enter. Hartley darts past to the corner chair at the conference table, whipping it out and sitting in it like she's afraid someone will try to steal her seat. Chase swallows his frustration and watches as she places her backpack on the tabletop and unzips it, opens what looks like a book inside and peers down with her head halfway inside the pocket.

"Good morning," says Chase, taking a deep breath. The adrenaline is already beginning to fade a little, leaving him resigned to face a long and grinding day. He tells himself this is what Cameron would advise, but he isn't sure, and suddenly he regrets not waking her up to ask.

"Morning," says Thompsen distractedly. He pulls a bagel from his bag and inserts it into the toaster in the corner kitchenette like food is the most important order of business. Kander flashes an overenthusiastic and obviously fake smile; Cattrell doesn't respond at all.

"So," says Chase, struggling with how to begin. "We've had this case for two days now. There is absolutely no reason it should be taking that long. I sent you off yesterday with a battery of tests, none of which got done."

Kander starts to open his mouth, and Chase holds up a hand for silence, feeling ridiculous and theatrical. He reminds himself that this team doesn't know him; they have no reason to suspect his bluff.

"I don't particularly care why that is," Chase continues. "We're not leaving here today until this case gets solved."

Thompsen gets to his feet abruptly, his chair tumbling to the carpeted floor with a muffled crash. Chase wonders whether the gesture is part of a petty temper tantrum or just plain carelessness. Cattrell gives a long-suffering sigh, and Hartley ducks further inside her backpack.

"We're going to start by talking to the patient. Then we'll run all of the tests from yesterday." Thompsen is halfway out the door when Chase stops him. "And I'm coming with you."

* * *

The patient's name is Lucy Campbell according to the chart, and she is not happy. She's thin, blonde, and athletic, but there's something obviously wrong. Her arms seem to have lost muscle tone, skin too soft and loose. Her hair has lost its shine, and there are dark circles under her eyes. Chase thinks that she looks unnervingly like the dying woman in his dream, but he forces the thought aside.

"I'm not crazy," she says by way of greeting. "And I'm not sure why this is taking so long. I didn't even see a doctor yesterday."

"Sorry," mutters Chase. Getting yelled at by a patient right off the bat is not a part of his plan to gain control of the team.

"We're going through some staffing changes," Kander offers unhelpfully. "Things are a little crazy right now."

Lucy narrows her eyes. "You're telling me that with five doctors none of you had the time to come and see me yesterday? I can find another hospital if that's the case."

"No," says Chase quickly, "that won't be necessary. We just have a few questions to ask you and then we'll get right along with some tests."

Lucy scowls, but she looks too sick to really protest. Chase feels suddenly awkward standing with the team behind him, like he's leading a ragtag band of mercenaries into war. He steps reflexively to the side, and Kander moves closer to the patient's bed, unnecessarily examining her IV stand. Chase glances behind him to see Thompsen and Cattrell looking sideways at one another, and Hartley with her back pressed to the wall like she's waiting for enough cover to escape.

"Go ahead," Chase says to the team, ignoring Lucy's look of incredulity and motioning for them to ask the questions. He tells himself he won't be promoting independence if he does the job himself, though it's unnerving to give them any measure of trust again.

Kander takes the chart first. "Uh…it says here that you've just bought a house with your boyfriend?"

Lucy nods impatiently. "That's right."

"It also says that you originally thought birth control pills might be causing your nausea. Any chance you actually are pregnant?"

"No! I'm not getting married until this summer!" Lucy sounds disgusted, and she throws back her blanket in a grand gesture of disapproval. She seems like exactly the kind of girl Chase couldn't stand back in school, and he resists the urge to roll his eyes.

"But you live with your boyfriend," Thompsen jumps in. "And you were on birth control. That suggests there was a reason you needed it. A reason that might have gotten you pregnant if it failed."

"Test me," Lucy snaps. "I'm not pregnant."

"All right," says Kander, and notes it in her chart. "Have you been out of the country recently?"

Lucy shakes her head sullenly.

"Any new medications you didn't tell the clinic about?"

"No," she insists. "And I've already been through all of this. Five doctors and all you're doing is repeating the same questions?"

"We're just trying to be thorough," Chase says before motioning for Kander to continue.

"Any recent sickness besides the nausea, or history of acid reflux, ulcers?" Kander is going more quickly now, Chase notices, obviously unnerved by Lucy's increasingly short temper. He makes a mental note to address this flaw later.

An uneasy moment passes before she answers. "I've had some…stomach cramps, lately. I assumed they were a side effect of coming off birth control."

"Other than that?" Kander looks at her like she's a bomb that might explode.

"_Nothing_." Lucy glares daggers, directing her gaze at each one of them before falling theatrically back against her thin hospital pillow. Behind him, Chase hears Hartley gasp, and he turns to see her sidestep along the wall, as close to the door as possible. Thompsen snickers to himself, then flashes a brilliant smile at Lucy.

"All right," Chase interrupts before this can turn into any more of a fiasco. He envies House's old immunity from this kind of trouble; it would be so much easier to ignore this woman's frustration and simply force the answers out of her, but he knows there's no way he can pull it off. "Thanks. We're gonna get started on some tests and we'll let you know what we find."

* * *

Chase breezes in the door and stands next to the whiteboard, placing it like a shield between the team and himself as they take seats around the table. He has to resist the urge to pull a chair over; it's only early afternoon and already his limbs have the rubbery feeling previously associated with thirty hour shifts. "Let's review."

"Nothing, nothing, and more nothing," says Thompsen, stirring an eighth packet of sugar into the coffee he's snagged from the cafeteria on the way back. He doesn't look up as he speaks.

"And you know this…how?" Cattrell draws out each word, his voice so deep it's almost oily. "Since you didn't actually _do_ any of the tests."

Thompsen shrugs. "Not my fault there weren't enough toys for all the children. I helped plenty."

"By standing around watching," mutters Cattrell.

"Maybe I saw something that you didn't."

"You just said you saw nothing." Cattrell gives a long-suffering sigh.

"And you think maybe you see something, so in seeing nothing he saw something that you didn't see." Hartley leans toward Thompsen, examining the surface of his coffee, and Chase wonders where her sudden courage has come from.

Thompsen glares at her, swatting the air in front of her face like he's trying to frighten away a pesky animal. "I don't need your help."

"Enough," says Chase. It takes an inordinate amount of energy to get his voice to work. It's not that he's afraid of them, he tells himself. He just can't be sure of the right action to take. For a moment his thoughts stray to Cameron, and he worries over whether she's gotten to work all right, because he hasn't heard from her all day. He uncaps the whiteboard marker, snapping the top neatly onto the back of it. "Go through the tests one at a time."

"You were there!" Thompsen protests.

"And you just pointed out that it's possible for different people to see different things. Go through the tests one at a time." Chase writes the date on the whiteboard and underlines it carefully, feeling better in the pretext of doing something useful.

"Uh, blood workup was normal," says Kander, grabbing the chart away from Cattrell, suddenly eager to please. "She's not pregnant."

"Cultures aren't back yet," Thompsen adds unhelpfully. "Maybe they'll show Kander's super stealth infection. That is, assuming it's not caused by invisible bacteria."

"Hey, you never know." Kander gives him a mirthless smile.

Thompsen snatches the file from Kander's outstretched hand. "Barium swallow shows no sign of blockage; CT was negative for gallstones." He gives a lopsided grin to the empty center of the room. "And we all strike out."

"No," says Cattrell smugly. "That just leaves my theory. Eating disorder. She seemed like the type."

"No way," Kander interrupts. "She was complaining that we hadn't come to see her sooner. Why would she care if she was doing it to herself?"

"To be contrary?" asks Cattrell.

"No, that's _you_," says Thompsen. Hartley laughs, the sound cutting and too loud. He looks at her derisively. "Shut up, _Genius_."

"_Enough_," says Chase again, feeling like he's trying to stop a runaway train. Authority has never come easily to him; it's even harder now that he's certain it's entirely undeserved.

"We'll have her assessed for an eating disorder." At least that will probably involve Cameron, he tells himself, but it feels like a defeat nonetheless. They are at a diagnostic impasse, and for the first time there's no one he trusts to ask for help. "Everyone_stay here_. I'm going to talk to the patient again. There has to be something we missed."

* * *

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